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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010685">The Unbusinesslike Man of Business</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda'>Verecunda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell &amp; Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:20:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an account of how John Childermass went to Hurtfew Abbey to look for his King, and found himself drawn into respectable employment instead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Unbusinesslike Man of Business</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>May, 1790</i>
</p>
<p>When John Childermass left His Majesty’s ship <i>Thomas of Dundale</i>, he cast about and, finding himself at something of a loss, consulted his cards. Their message was obscure, and <i>L'Ermite</i> stood out particularly, but in a way he could not quite read. However, after some not inconsiderable time, he understood that he was to go home, where he could expect a meeting that would set him on the right path.</p>
<p><i>Home.</i> The word settled uncomfortably in his mind. It was such a very inexact term for one such as himself, for it carried a connexion of permanence, of belonging, that had long been absent from his life. He had not belonged aboard the <i>Dundale</i>, and even before then, for the longest time, “home” had simply been whichever court or alleyway he could find to lay his head in for the night. The one place where he might be said to belong was Yorkshire, to the King’s own country, for it was there that he had been born and where he had been formed. It was a broad net, to be sure, but it was at least a first step in the right direction. And so it was to Yorkshire that he went.</p>
<p>Securing passage north was easy enough. With the navy rushing to arm itself against the threat of war with Spain, press warrants had gone out, and there were many coasters and merchant ships who had suddenly found themselves short-handed. In Wapping he found a collier whose master agreed to let him work his passage to Whitby. It was an easy enough trip, though after three years aboard a man o’ war the deep-bellied roll of the old Whitby cat was strange to him, and he was able to swap some of his slops for a good, land-going coat of the mate’s. There was, unfortunately, no changing his wide duck trousers, and he must wait until he got inland before he could find something less apt to advertise him as a runaway seaman.</p>
<p>Whitby was the same as it had been when he was last there, during his short-lived stint as an ostler at the White Horse and Griffin. The sea beyond the cliffs was busy with fishermen’s boats, the harbour densely thicketed with the masts of whalers and colliers. On either side of the harbour, the houses jostled for the best view, piling steeply one on top of the other, while the ruin of the old abbey sat in gaunt state over all. The narrow, winding streets and harbour-front were thronged with sailors smart in their shore-going rig, and prosperous shipowners calculating that day’s fortune in sperm-oil or coal-dust. It was a sight so intensely familiar as to go to his heart at once, but at the same time he felt rootless and adrift. There was no one here who would be pleased to see him, no reason for him to linger, and so, after using up some of his small stock of money to buy bread and cheese, he made up his mind to set off for York at once.</p>
<p>The easiest route was to take the road south along the coast, past Scarborough, but even as he left the town, he looked up at the moors, rising high and wild beyond the road, and was seized with a powerful sensation of longing. The wild places had been his refuge more than once in the past, and it was in those places, where the wind made eerie music through the long grass and the trees wrote unseen messages upon the sky with scratching fingers, that he most strongly felt the King’s presence. It was something he had not felt in so very long, trapped in the dark bowels of a Channel-groper far to the south, and now the longing grew within him, binding itself into his blood, until he could no longer resist its summons, but turned off the Scarborough road and struck out instead across the moors.</p>
<p>He had a notion that if he kept to a generally southward path, he could come off the moors at Pickering, cut south to Malton, and thence straight on to York by way of Stamford Bridge. But for now he was content to lose himself in the wilderness. The moors rose and fell away in great dark waves until they were lost in the summer haze upon the horizon, as if melting into some other world. The wind was loud on the heights, and stirred the rugged heather with flowing patterns whose meaning was just beyond his understanding. Shunning the main routes, he kept to the quieter paths, and though he met the occasional packhorse or pedlar on his way, more often he walked alone. At first that suited him well enough, but he had come back to Yorkshire in search of that elusive thing called home, and it was increasingly lonely path that he walked.</p>
<p>It was late in the afternoon when he had left Whitby, and afternoon soon melted into evening, which in turn lengthened into twilight. A long northern twilight where, though the sky still shewed pale, the shadows gathered swift and deep in the hollows, and cast wide across the distant hills like a cloak. John Uskglass’ cloak, with its train of night.</p>
<p>“These are the King’s places,” his mother used to say, when they slept in copses or under hedges. “John Uskglass was one of us, a lost child without a name, and he watches over us all. Mind that. These wild places are ours, and if you wish to look for the King, it’s in the shadows you’ll find him.”</p>
<p>He looked for him now, as he had looked for him all his life, glancing into the shadows, half-hoping, half-fearing that he would see John Usklgass staring back at him out of the darkness, raven helm upon his head. He thought of the tale of the Basque sailor, and could not help but shiver, thinking that maybe his own case was not so very different. As he went, he murmured the words of the Yorkshire Game under his breath: “I greet thee, King, and bid thee welcome to my heart.”</p>
<p>He made his bed that night in a hollow, not a cave like the Basque sailor’s, shielded from the wind and in sight of a gibbet that had been put up to deter the more desperate sort of cutthroat who haunted the moors. It was empty, the remains of a frayed old rope swaying faintly in the breeze, yet even as he watched, a raven came down and perched on the beam. It cried out, its harsh voice echoing across the hills, then spread its wings and flew off again. The King’s bird, abroad in the King’s wilderness. In how many songs and stories did that very same sight herald the appearance of the King and his host?</p>
<p>
  <i>For always and for ever,<br/>
I pray remember me<br/>
Upon the moor, beneath the stars,<br/>
In the King’s wild company.</i>
</p>
<p>Well, he thought, with a bitter sort of amusement, he was upon the moor now, beneath the stars, but with no wild company but his own. Once again, he was alone in the world. The consciousness of his aloneness yawned within him, so hollow and desolate that it took him by surprize. It was a long time since he had allowed himself to feel any thing so sharply. He thought of York, where he was bound. Was that what he really wanted, to return to the hardship and danger of a life lived on the streets? To be cursed and despised by high and low folk alike?</p>
<p>“We are the King’s folk, John.” His mother’s voice returned to him from across the years. “If you look for him, he will answer.”</p>
<p>If John Uskglass were to ride by that very moment, Childermass would gladly pledge himself to his service. Whether that meant he should end up in one of the kingdoms of Faerie, or on the other side of Hell, did not trouble him too greatly at that moment. It would be a place of belonging, and that was enough.</p>
<p>But where might he find the King now? If, as all the stories and whispered rumours had it, the King did chuse to revisit the North now and then, he came and went as he pleased, without warning. During his reign, if any one wished to seek him out, they had known he might be found at Newcastle. Now, though; where might the King be found <i>now</i>?</p>
<p>There were so many places in the North associated with him, so many towns and cities he had built, and it was said that in some of those places, one might still feel his presence. Abbeys, too. Childermass had passed by many of them on his travels. When he was a child, he and his mother had even slept four nights beneath the great stone arches of Fountains, until gamekeepers from the estate had chased them off with dogs. But he remembered those nights fondly, for the sensation of safety he had felt even within those ruined walls, the wonderful certainty that the land was alive and that the magic of John Uskglass still lingered in those old stones. </p>
<p>It was then the thought came to him that he had seen all the great houses, but one. For although the course of his life had brought him not just to Fountains, but to Rievaulx and Whitby and Kirkstall and many more besides, it had never once brought him to Hurtfew. The realisation occasioned him no inconsiderable surprize. He had never given it much thought, but now it seemed like a most glaring oversight. Hurtfew Abbey had been built on land the King himself had owned and known well. He had stayed often at the Abbey, and it was said that the abbots of Hurtfew had been counted among his most loyal retainers. It was even said that Hurtfew was where some of the first books of magic had been copied.</p>
<p>Why, then, had he never visited the place before? Surely if there was one place in Yorkshire where the King might have left his mark, it would be there.</p>
<p>The notion grew within Childermass until it became a longing, and with that he was decided. He did not even trouble to lay out his cards. He would go to York, but before he did, and disappeared once more into the shadows and the crowds of people, he would go to Hurfew Abbey and see it with his own eyes.</p>
<p>Granted, it would take him a bit out of his way. He knew the place was in the Ouse valley, somewhere between Fountains and Rievaulx. He reckoned it up carefully in his mind. Two days’ walk, three at the most. He could strike out west across the moors and come down into the valley, then it should be tolerably easy going. It would stretch him thin, but he reckoned he had just enough money left to provide for the diversion. If not, well, the talents he had learned as a child had not deserted him. Any amount of hardship would be worth it.</p>
<p>He slept that night wrapped in his coat, and dreamed of walking along a long road beneath a frowning sky, heavy with dark clouds. A lonely road, but for one other, solitary figure walking the opposite way towards him. But although the figure came unerringly in his direction, so that they must inevitably pass each other on the road, he never seemed to come close enough for Childermass to see his face.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div><p>Two more days brought him to Hurtfew Abbey. He cut a rambling path across the moors (for he was wary of pursuit, even now), and parted with the last of his money to pass his second night back on land at the Three Tuns Inn at Thirsk. Then when morning came, he set off south on the York road. It was a fine, bright day in early summer, and the hedgerows were bright with white-and-blue John’s Farthings. This he took for a good sign, and it cheered him as he passed through the little towns and villages threaded along the road. As the day wore on, he began to suspect he was in danger of straying, so he began to ask his way of the carters and farm-labourers he encountered, and was at last put back on the right course, striking off the main road and onto the land where the River Hurt flowed into the Ouse. A little further on, through well-tended farmland, and his questioning revealed that he was at last on Hurtfew land. He would reach the Abbey that night.</p>
<p>Evening deepened into dusk, and at the end of a long day’s march he found himself on the margins of the abbey park. And it was here that Childermass suffered his first disappointment.</p>
<p>He had heard there was very little left of Hurtfew Abbey to be seen. It would not be like the majestic ruins of the other great houses. He was prepared for that. But he was not prepared for the fact that there should be <i>nothing</i> of the King’s abbey now shewing above ground. Even by the light of the first stars he perceived that there was nothing left of its old splendour. The house in the middle of the estate was of a thoroughly modern, unfanciful aspect, without so much as a Gothic arch to allude to its monastic origins. Even the land it commanded was distressingly ordered and well-tended, with lawns and gardens imposed upon it with what seemed to him a most unnatural and unsympathetic condition of neatness, like a stiff new suit that has not yet moulded itself to the dimensions of its wearer. Even the little copses of trees that clustered here and there about the park seemed to have been planted with the calculated precision of the landscape gardener, not grown naturally from the earth. In fact, the only feature that had any natural appearance at all was the River Hurt, which meandered through the valley as it presumably always had, even in the days when it had borne the King’s barge upon its waters. But of that time, of that great legacy, there now seemed to be nothing left.</p>
<p>For a long time — hours, perhaps — he wandered through the park, ignoring the wide gravel road in favour of crossing and re-crossing the grass, wandering beneath the cold stars, desperately seeking some lingering hint of the King’s presence, of that pulse of old magic that he was sometimes able to catch in the wild. Sometimes he thought he could just discern it, a faint and fragile thread; but if he did, and it was no more than his own fancy, then it was buried deep, stamped ruthlessly down beneath the well-ordered lawns and arbours of the modern age.</p>
<p>It was then the thought came to him, cold and terrible: what if there was no magic left in this place? What if the King really had departed it once and for all?</p>
<p>As he wandered, his gaze was drawn — reluctantly, but unerringly — back to the square, sensible house in the middle of it all. It must be getting late, he thought, for the moon was high, but a few lights could yet be seen shining in the windows. These lights drew his eye time and time again, and presently he realised that not only his eyes, but his feet, too, were being drawn that way — that, almost without realising it, he was making his way towards the house itself.</p>
<p>Before long he came to the gardens, full of quiet shadows as they rested, and soon found himself standing directly in the shadow of the house. It loomed above him, stately and silent, and he made a circle of it, examining it from every angle. At last, on an irresistible impulse, he reached out and touched the cool stone of its walls: stone from the King’s own abbey.</p>
<p>“Who’s there?”</p>
<p>He started, and snatched his hand away as if the wall had suddenly turned red-hot, looking wildly about find the owner of the voice. It had come from some way off — from the front of the house, he thought.</p>
<p>“Who’s there?” It came again, more insistently this time, and accompanied now by the toll of approaching footsteps.</p>
<p>Childermass wasted not a moment. He ran from the path and plunged into the shrubbery. Smothered by laurel and privet, the footsteps already sounded remote and muffled, but Childermass knew this for a mere trick of the senses, and so he pressed on, deeper into the shrubbery. Half a lifetime spent ducking and diving out of the reach of various pursuers had accustomed him to go softly, even at speed, and so he went now, stealing through the damp, green-smelling darkness like a shadow, without so much as a snapped twig underfoot to betray his whereabouts.</p>
<p>Behind him, the footsteps paused, and he heard the same voice as before calling someone’s name — “Joe”, he thought. It was answered by a second voice, some way distant, as if someone else had just come round from the front of the house. Childermass did not wait to eavesdrop upon their conference, but crept on.</p>
<p>The shrubbery, from what he had seen as he arrived, was towards the rear of the house, stretching away from the walls before coming to a sudden halt at the edge of the gardens. The best strategy, as he saw it, was to follow it in this same direction until it expelled him in the wide expanse of the park, where he might easily lose himself, or at least outpace any pursuit.</p>
<p>He was therefore entirely amazed when he emerged from the bushes and found himself at the very front of the house.</p>
<p>For a moment or two he simply stood there, rooted to the spot, blinking stupidly and wondering if he had not just taken leave of his senses. But there could be no mistaking it: although he had struck a straight path away from the rear of the house, he had somehow come out at the very front door.</p>
<p>The voices of Joe and his companion now came again: closer to, as if they had retraced their steps and were now returning to the front. Childermass therefore resolved not to waste time pondering the queer phenomenon of the shrubbery, but turned down the nearest garden path, which passed between two flower-beds to lose itself in the great shadow of an ivy-draped garden wall. This suited his purposes admirably, and he followed it, darting between the great ornamental stone urns until he reached an opening in the wall. He ducked through it — to find himself standing at the front door of the house once again.</p>
<p>Now he was in a state of greater perplexity than ever, and his confusion was only increased as he turned to see the bobbing light of a lantern and the dark forms of Joe and the other round the corner.</p>
<p>“You, there!” They had seen him, too. The shout went up, the lantern shivered in the darkness, and now came the sound of footsteps again — this time running. </p>
<p>Before the house was a wide carriage-drive, lined by a neat avenue of poplars and running straight from the front steps towards the classical bridge that spanned the river. It was a woefully obvious route to take, but it was the nearest, and so Childermass wasted not another moment but, leaving behind another shout, put his back squarely to the house and ran.</p>
<p>It was a queer thing, but though the avenue was wide, and the trees spaced well apart from each other, no sooner had he set foot upon the gravel of the drive than he was involved in a depth of shadow more complete than could be achieved by such a covering. Indeed, upon the instant, the very pathway seemed to grow narrower to his eyes, the trees on either hand looming higher and closer, and as he looked ahead, the little bridge was now appeared a great distance away, visible only as a pale speck at the end of that long dark tunnel of trees. And though he was already running hard enough to make the blood pound in his ears, he never seemed to come any closer to it.</p>
<p><i>Magic.</i> The word flashed like tinder at the back of his mind. No sooner had it done so than he felt it close about him, as fine and clinging as spider-silk. The air all around him gave a curious shift, the shadows seemed to turn themselves inside-out. With a sensation of fear such as he had never felt before, he pressed onward, tearing himself free of those subtle clinging tendrils, and was instantly plunged into utter darkness. It lasted only a moment or two, but when he blinked his eyes open again, he found himself stumbling to a halt — at the very front of the house.</p>
<p>He stood there panting, heart hammering, overtaken by a combination of dismay and bewilderment. Then, too late, he realised that in the time it had taken him to fight free of the magical pathway, his pursuers had found the time to catch up with him, which fact was amply demonstrated by the yellow glare of lantern-light in his face and, more vitally, the sickening blow of a fist in his belly. </p>
<p>He doubled over, hacking and retching, as bright white lights danced and burst behind his eyelids. Through the spiking pain, he was only dimly sensible of voices conferring hastily somewhere above his head, then rough hands seized him (possibly four, but in the haze of his pain it might as well have been a hundred), and with a rough exhortation of, “All right, my lad, let’s be having you,” he was borne along to his doom.</p>
<p>From the sound of a heavy door opening, he apprehended that he had been brought inside. Glancing up, he caught sight of elegant furnishings and a stately oak staircase running up in two branches to a first-floor landing, but was afforded no time to admire the effect as his assailants conducted him along with no great degree of gentleness. He struggled against them, made every effort to twist himself out of their grasp, but they were both bigger than he, and strong with it, and they succeeded in keeping him subdued as they hauled him towards the stairs.</p>
<p>Women’s voices hailed them from the landing, and after some hasty conference with his captors, it was agreed that he should be brought up to the drawing-room, and that the women would fetch the master. Entertaining no great desire to meet that personage, Childermass made a fresh bid to break free, but enjoyed no greater success than before; and his captors held him fast as they marched him along a series of passages to another room. This he took to be the drawing-room, handsomely furnished and well-appointed. Here he was roughly enjoined to sit in one of the high wing-chairs near the fire. He struggled, but a heavy hand on his shoulder prevented his escape, and so he was compelled to remain where he was until the master of the house made his appearance.</p>
<p>He was not, in fact, the terrible personage of Childermass’ imagination. Rather he proved to be a small, rather dry individual in a dressing-gown somewhat too large for him, with a cap pulled over his head. But he had not the look of one just roused out of bed, for he wore spectacles, as if he had just been reading, and he seemed quite alert, with none of the bleariness Childermass might have expected from one who had just been unexpectedly awakened. He entered the room with an air of some timidity, putting his head round the door and peering within, eyes blinking rapidly behind his spectacles, before coming fully into the room. Even then, he kept his back pressed close to the wall, keeping his distance as much as possible from Childermass as he turned his small blue eyes upon him.</p>
<p>“Is this the man?” he said, in a tense, rather high voice.</p>
<p>“Aye, Mr Norrell,” replied one of the men who had apprehended Childermass. In the well-lit room, he now saw them to be two rough, greatly weathered individuals — groundskeepers, perhaps, which would explain how they had happened to be abroad at such an hour.</p>
<p>“We found him out by the shrubbery,” said the second, “skulking about.”</p>
<p>“Shall we ride into town and fetch a constable?”</p>
<p>“No!” cried the little man. “No, wait! I wish to talk to him.” He blinked furiously at Childermass, before adding, as an afterthought, “Leave us.”</p>
<p>This order came as some surprize to Childermass, given that the little man, this Mr Norrell, seemed to stand in some considerable dread of him. But if the two others thought this an eccentric manner of conducting affairs, they gave no sign of it. Instead they merely exchanged a look, then, with an assurance to their master that they would just be on the other side of the door should he require them, they left.</p>
<p>As the door closed behind them, the little gentleman turned back to Childermass with an anxious little frown. He seemed to gaze out from some secret little hiding-place within himself, with a combination of dread and an almost involuntary interest. He seemed every moment on the verge of speaking, but never did, as if he could not quite make up his mind what to say; until at last he burst out, as if against his better judgement, “Why did you come here?”</p>
<p>“Sightseeing,” said Childermass. As rejoinders went, it was rather a weak one, but he was not then feeling quite up to his usual standard of insolence, his wits being much dulled by bewilderment and rough usage.</p>
<p>He was, too, oppressed by an altogether separate sensation. It was one that had first come upon him when he had started down the avenue: a pressure against his temples, a sensation of headache, even of dizziness, as if there was something, some change in the air, affecting his faculties. It had grown unaccountably vivid the further he had gone — or, more accurately, <i>not</i> gone — down the avenue outside, and it remained uncomfortably strong even now.</p>
<p>There was magic here. It was all around him — in the house, in the air. He felt it in his bones, in his very pulse of his blood. He knew it at once, for it was the sensation that he had spent his whole life searching for.</p>
<p>But to encounter it <i>here</i>, in this ordinary modern house, and in the same room as this dry, scholarly little man…</p>
<p>His insolence, weak as it was, did not sit well with Mr Norrell, for a frown crossed that gentleman’s brow, and his lips pressed sullenly together. It was a response Childermass was well accustomed to seeing and, despite himself, he smiled.</p>
<p>“I was travelling to York,” he said, “and happened to lose my way. That’s how I came to be here.”</p>
<p>“You were trespassing,” said Mr Norrell.</p>
<p>“Not intentionally.”</p>
<p>It was clear that Mr Norrell was not at all convinced by this version of events, but could not quite make up his mind to challenge him on the point. Instead he merely continued to hover there, irresolute, watching Childermass as if he were some particularly vicious species of feral cat, who might make a leap for his throat at any moment.</p>
<p>For his own part, Childermass regarded the master of Hurfew with curiosity, and not a little disbelief. He did not seem especially old, perhaps no more than a year or two beyond thirty, but the set of his expression, indeed his entire manner, was so dry and retiring that it might better become a gentleman more than ten or even twenty years older. He also seemed an excessively timid individual, his little blue eyes still blinking behind the protection of their spectacles.</p>
<p>“What is your name?” he demanded at last.</p>
<p>“John Childermass.” He was sensible that it was not perhaps his real name, inasmuch as it was not perhaps the name that had been entered in the parish books when he was born, but it was the name he had been long accustomed to use and think of as his own.</p>
<p>“And how did you come here?”</p>
<p>“By the road,” he answered, and smiled to see Norrell’s lips compress still further.</p>
<p>His first instinct was to withhold his true history and purposes, for fear of being handed straight back into the loving arms of the navy, but somehow he fancied this was something he need not fear with this Mr Norrell. He seemed far more preoccupied with the question of how Childermass came to be upon his property, than how to dispose of him. This itself presented something of a puzzle. Surely it must be plain enough that the grounds and park were quite open to any one who might take it into his head to trespass.</p>
<p>“In all frankness, Mr Norrell, your estate is not so pretty that I would willingly have spent all night here, but happen I did have a spot of difficulty finding my way out of it again.”</p>
<p>“<i>Did</i> you?” To his great surprize, this announcement caused Mr Norrell to give a great start; then, in an avid, eager gesture, he leaned forward. Childermass would almost swear that those little blue eyes were now <i>gleaming</i>. “What happened? I mean to say, where did you go? Did you perceive any thing at all — unusual?”</p>
<p>This was not at all what Childermass had been expecting, and perhaps it was for that very reason that he replied, “I reckon every law of natural science has been turned upside-down on this estate. There was nothing <i>usual</i> that I could see.”</p>
<p>This, unaccountably, caused the little man to grow even more excited. “Yes, yes!” he cried. “But what happened? What did you experience? Describe it to me exactly!”</p>
<p>Childermass frowned, but before he could think twice about it, he found himself relating his experiences in the grounds and upon the avenue as exactly as he could recall them. And the more he spoke, the more enthusiastic Mr Norrell grew. He listened with rapt attention, and so absorbed was he in Childermass’ account that he even forgot his fear of him and came closer, quite unconsciously, to catch every word — at least until he remembered himself and put out his hands to steady himself upon the back of the sopha.</p>
<p>“Extraordinary,” he breathed, when Childermass had finished. “Quite extraordinary. De Chepe is generally so vague as to the effects… but are you sure — quite sure — that you felt no sort of befuddlement at all, no confusion of the senses?”</p>
<p>“Nothing at all,” said Childermass, “beyond being naturally astonished.”</p>
<p>“Remarkable,” said Mr Norrell, steepling his hands and pressing them ruminatively to his lips. “Of course, the results are imperfect, but they are more — far more — than what I had originally anticipated.”</p>
<p>“Wait,” cried Childermass. Realisation came upon him in perfect (though rather incredulous) clarity, and he half-rose from his seat. “You did that?”</p>
<p>He had spent his whole life searching for magic, and now he had found it. But that he should find it here, and discover that it had been conjured up by this small, timid, <i>respectable</i> scholar, the very opposite of all he had ever imagined the King to be…</p>
<p>“You are a magician? A real magician, not just a theoretical gentleman?”</p>
<p>Mr Norrell’s face seemed caught between two expressions: a little tight-lipped sourness, swiftly overtaken by a secret but quite perceptible pleasure. His eyes now fairly shone, and something very like a smile was struggling to contain itself about his lips.</p>
<p>“Why, I suppose you might very well consider me as such, yes. But—” and here his brows contracted once more in that anxious expression that seemed most habitual to him — “what do you know of magic? I mean to say, is that why you came here? To find me out?”</p>
<p>This thought seemed to occasion him fresh anxiety. The germs of enthusiasm in his countenance vanished and he seemed to retreat back within himself. This, as much as the unexpectedness of the question, caused Childermass’ frown to deepen.</p>
<p>“No,” he replied. “I had no notion you so much as existed until now.”</p>
<p>Norrell looked unconvinced. How ironical, thought Childermass, that when he should chuse to be truthful, was the time that he should be so openly disbelieved.</p>
<p>“Where have you come from?” asked Mr Norrell.</p>
<p>He shrugged. It was not the wisest course, perhaps but somehow he continued to doubt that Norrell possessed the requisite courage to move against him. Besides which, for all the constraint and suspicion between them, he could not but feel a certain affinity with this odd little man.</p>
<p>“Until lately I was at sea,” he said. “I came ashore at Whitby, and before that, I was in His Majesty’s ship <i>Thomas of Dundale</i>.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Mr Norrell frowned. “Then you are a deserter?”</p>
<p>“Aye,” replied Childermass with a smile. “You might call me that.”</p>
<p>A deserter from a King’s ship, with that damning great R written against his name in the muster-books, his description sent out to every port in the kingdom, and the threat of the noose hanging over his head should he be recognised and apprehended. But he had lived with that same threat since he was no more than a child, so it did not trouble him overmuch.</p>
<p>“Why did you do such a thing?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “The life did not agree with me.”</p>
<p>He had always been able to get on with most people wherever he went, but the navy had proved a very different affair. The officers objected to his frank speech and forward manner, to the point that he had even found himself at the gratings for insolence. (He still had the stripes to bear witness to the fact.) He could have borne with that well enough — after all, it was a particular delight of his to be objectionable to gentlefolks — but he had even proved unpopular with his fellows before the mast. There are few creatures in the world more superstitious than a sailor, and to the men of the <i>Dundale</i>, Johnny Childermass, with his queer black eyes and fortune-reading cards, had been the object of a most uncomfortable suspicion. If the officers did not do for him, he had reasoned, then before too long he should certainly find himself on the wrong end of a Jonah’s lift.</p>
<p>“No,” he went on, “the life did not agree with me, and I knew if I did not take measures to put it behind me, it should be a long time before I had the opportunity again. Even if this Nootka business comes to nothing, then the revolution in France will certainly end up in war, and it will be a long time before the navy lets any of her seamen go.”</p>
<p>“Quite,” said Mr Norrell with a sniff. “A most barbaric affair, this French revolution.” He now eyed Childermass with fresh suspicion. “You are not a republican, I trust?”</p>
<p>Childermass grinned. “Oh, no,” he said, with great satisfaction. “I am loyal to my King.”</p>
<p>He said it with perfect confidence, thinking that Norrell could hardly fail to grasp his meaning. Norrell, a magician working magic upon the estate that had once been John Uskglass’ abbey. He even began to think that he might have found a kindred spirit.</p>
<p>He therefore suffered perhaps the greatest disappointment of his life when Mr Norrell replied, “Well, I am pleased to hear that. I understand that since the first uprisings in France, there has been a most disconcerting rise in radical activity in this country, and it is the duty of every true British subject to resist it.”</p>
<p>Childermass stared. He was half-tempted to believe that Norrell had spoken satirically, for it was simply inconceivable to his mind that a magician in the North could not have taken his meaning. He prided himself on his powers of observation and his facility for judging the characters and moods of those encountered. It was a talent which had sustained him through all his years of doubtful living, and he placed a great deal of reliance in it. But he found it harder and harder to read this Mr Norrell to his satisfaction. He seemed a tangle of contradictions: a Yorkshireman without any apparent regard for John Uskglass; a dry and unworldly gentleman-scholar, yet a magician capable of true magic. Nervous, yet holding no apparent misgivings about holding a private interview with a suspicious fellow found trespassing on his estate after dark. It was impossible to pin him down, and thus Childermass found himself increasingly unsettled.</p>
<p>Yet, if he was unsettled, at least he might derive some small consolation from the fact that Norrell was in a like condition. He continued to regard Childermass with that same mixture of interest and anxiety. He was greatly unnerved, even to the point of agitation, and he continued to throw out those nervous sidelong looks in his direction, watching him in what he clearly thought to be a covert manner.</p>
<p>“How do you come to know about magic?” he asked, in equal parts curiosity and indignation.</p>
<p>“From my mother,” replied Childermass. “She told me much of the old history, of John Uskglass and his court, of the old fairy roads and rings, all the old safeguards against fairies’ whims. All the old knowledge which can still be picked up along the hedgerows.”</p>
<p>A sour expression touched Mr Norrell’s face, and in a tone which would certainly have been a sneer if only his dry voice had been equal to the task, he said, “Yellow-curtain foolery.”</p>
<p>This sent Childermass’ hackles up, but he had heard such views expressed in far less mild terms by other well-to-do gentlemen who fancied themselves as magical scholars, and so he was able to do no more than lift a satirical brow.</p>
<p>Despite his summary dismissal of common yellow-curtain magic, however, Norrell still seemed deeply uncomfortable of him, caught between fear and enthusiasm. </p>
<p>“Of course,” he said, “there remains the question of what I ought to do with you now.”</p>
<p>Childermass went still, awaiting the inevitable judgement. Just as soon as he knew what Norrell intended, the sooner he could devise some means of extricating himself from it.</p>
<p>Yet Mr Norrell continued in a state of abject indecision. Several times he seemed almost to come to some decision, before dissolving once more into a state of nervous perplexity.</p>
<p>“I suppose,” he said at last, “I ought to send for a constable and have you properly prosecuted.”</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” said Childermass with a grin. “I dare say there must be at least one or two magistrates in the country I’ve not had the honour of being introduced to.”</p>
<p>Mr Norrell’s nostrils gave a little flare of disapprobation, but he manfully chose to ignore this. Instead he continued to contemplate what course he ought to take, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Then, at last, he said:</p>
<p>“I suppose you have seen a great deal of the country in your time, given your — history?”</p>
<p>“Aye,” said Childermass. “I’ve worn out more than one pair of boots tramping from one Riding to the other.”</p>
<p>“You know something of people, then, I dare say?”</p>
<p>“Something.” And a hard-won knowledge it had been, too.</p>
<p>“Yes — yes, indeed.” At this, Norrell fell into another short silence, turning something else over in his mind. Presently, he continued: “And York itself? Are you familiar with York?”</p>
<p>Was he familiar with York? He almost laughed aloud. He had slept in its courts and snickleways, kept time by the reliable pealing of the Minster bells. He had picked pockets along Stonegate and Pavement, drunk ale in the Black Swan and the Old Starre Inn, and seen his mother hanged on the Knavesmire.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said, “I am tolerably familiar with York.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Mr Norrell, in a far more decisive tone than Childermass had yet heard him employ, “rather than hand you over to the proper authorities, I am prepared to offer you an amnesty — upon certain conditions.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes?” said Childermass, intrigued and suspicious all at once. He affected indifference, however, and merely leaned back in his chair, waiting.</p>
<p>“As you have perceived, I may lay some claim to being a magician — indeed, perhaps the only practical magician in England.” For a moment, his eyes flickered downward, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It is not, I own, an especially respectable claim for a gentleman of my station to make. In the main, it is only charlatans of the lowest sort who make any claim to be capable of practical magic, but it is my earnest hope that — well, that is nothing to the purpose now. But my success with one of de Chepe’s lesser magical pathways, modest though it may be, is the result of many years of rigorous study.”</p>
<p>“I don’t doubt it.”</p>
<p>“I have devoted my life to the study and — and the practice of magic. Since I came into my estate here, I have succeeded in amassing a modest yet respectable collection of magical books — books about magic, and books <i>of</i> magic. I am, however, anxious to expand it. You can have no conception of how stagnant the field of magical study has grown over the last three hundred years, how many priceless volumes are left to rot away in booksellers’ shops and private collections, their owners being entirely ignorant of their true worth! A friend of my uncle’s had a first edition of Goodwin’s <i>Historia Thaumaturgica</i> which he used to prop up a leg of his favourite chair. His chair! Can you imagine such a thing?”</p>
<p>“Shocking, I’m sure,” said Childermass mildly.</p>
<p>“These books ought to be in the possession of one who appreciates their worth,” said Mr Norrell, warming to his theme, “who understands their true value. I have a man in the city — Mr Robinson, my solicitor — who sends me word when something comes up at a sale or an auction, but it is an incredibly tedious undertaking. Given the remote situation of my estate here, you may judge for yourself what a time it takes to make my way to and from York, time that would be more profitably spent in reading and study. Added to that, I am a most indifferent traveller, and I find the journey by coach most disagreeable.”</p>
<p>“I had no notion a scholar’s life was so full of hardship,” said Childermass with a smile.</p>
<p>“Oh, it is, I do assure you!” cried Mr Norrell, entirely missing his tone. “To that end, I have been considering employing a man to act as my proxy in these matters, an intelligent and dependable person who can manage this part of my business, leaving me free to attend to my studies.”</p>
<p>“That sounds like a wise idea,” replied Childermass. He had already formed the opinion that Mr Norrell was the sort of person who ought not to be allowed outside on his own.</p>
<p>Now, for the first time, Mr Norrell met his gaze directly. “It seems to me that such a person, in order to discharge his duties properly, ought to have some knowledge of magic and magical history. You seem to be such a person, Mr Childermass. Would you be willing to accept the position?”</p>
<p>He had caught the drift of Norrell’s thoughts early on, but it still came as something of a surprize now that it was out in the open. He could not help but laugh aloud. “Do you often recruit your staff from persons you find skulking about your house after dark, Mr Norrell?”</p>
<p>Norrell’s mouth tightened. “I would appreciate it if you answered my questions directly.”</p>
<p>Childermass stopped laughing at that, endeavouring now to divine what was at the heart of this. For all his protestations, Norrell still seemed convinced that he had been intent on breaking into his house, perhaps to learn what magical secrets he so jealously guarded. In that case, to so suddenly change tack and offer him a position in his own household… either this man Norrell was innocent to the point of imbecility, or he had some secret purpose of his own. But as to what that might be, Childermass must own himself baffled.</p>
<p>In the mean time, however, Norrell misconstrued the nature of his silence, for he now said, “I am willing to pay you well — better, I expect, than you might have earned in the service, or in other, less honest pursuits. What about fifty pounds per annum?”</p>
<p>This time, Childermass had no hope of concealing his response. He started in his chair, his eyes wide. “Fifty pounds? Is that supposed to be a joke?”</p>
<p>Mr Norrell’s expression suggested that if he had ever heard of such things as jokes, he was vaguely affronted to have been suspected of making one. “Certainly not. I am perfectly in earnest. I require a man of business, and you seem to possess qualities that would be of use to me in such a position. You have a knowledge of the world, some degree of intelligence, and an awareness of magic. Can you read and write?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“So much the better. All other particulars should be easy to manage. Your room and board shall be quite simple to arrange. It will necessitate only very minor deductions from your pay. What have you to say?”</p>
<p>Childermass was dumbfounded. Fifty pounds! That was far and away more than he had earned in any of his former lawful situations. And it was certainly much more than he could ever hope to scrape together by returning to his old calling.</p>
<p>Yet even as he contemplated these prospective riches, he was checked by the thought of what it entailed. Service. It was the unlikeliest sort of vocation for him. He had never been one for bowing and scraping, nor for answering to any one else but himself. His time in the <i>Dundale</i> had merely confirmed that. And the notion of truckling to this absurd little man — calling him <i>sir</i>! — was more than he reckoned he could achieve with composure.</p>
<p>On the other hand… Norrell was perhaps the sort of master who was so completely wrapped up in his own pursuits that the servants were left with the run of the house. And for that sort of wage, a situation as a buyer and carrier of books was surely no great hardship. And if the worst came to the worst, and he found the position not to his taste after all, it would surely be a simple enough thing to take himself quietly away.</p>
<p>And of course, running always like a hidden stream beneath the surface of his thoughts, there was the magic. The great fascination of his life, the thing he had longed for and searched for above all, and now he had found it, in perhaps the most unlikely guise imaginable: in the person of this timid, blinking little gentleman-scholar who seemed as if he hardly left his house.</p>
<p><i>L’Ermite</i> now came floating to the forefront of his mind. Was this where the cards had been leading him, after all? There was magic being worked here: fragile and tentative, but very real, and happening here in the heart of the King’s own land. Surely that was no coincidence! Perhaps — a strange, unaccustomed thrill darted through him — perhaps he was even meant to play some role in drawing it out once more.</p>
<p>Perhaps that was why Norrell had extended this eccentric offer to him. Perhaps, for all his timidity and distrust, he also sensed the same obscure affinity between them.</p>
<p>In the end, there really was only one answer to make: “Very well. I accept.”</p>
<p>And that was how John Childermass came to be employed as Mr Norrell’s unlikely man of business.</p>
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